The Road to Abaddon
by Hane no Zaia
Summary: A part of him briefly entertained the thought of leaving and maybe catching up, but he steeled himself, because such dreams were dangerous and led nowhere except further down the drain. Red really should have known better than to go along with the whims of a madman, really.
1. And So

_This is the result of a recent thought experiment. You may even view this as some sort of pilot chapter, posted to see whether or not there is any significant amount of interest in it. If not, then this will remain as a one-shot posted for the sake of my own amusement. Cheers._

_Disclaimer: I obviously don't own DGM. Also, a part of the Musician's song (semi-faithfully translated) is also featured in this chapter. Obviously, that is not mine either (a pity, truly)._

**- o0o -**

**And So…**

**- o0o -**

He lay on his side on the cold hard ground. It had recently been disturbed, and the bared soil beneath it was cold against his bare cheek, cooling him down in coordination with the elements whilst his own warmth – or at least what little remained of it – seeped into them in return, straining the ground in dark crimson. The warmth of his breath greeting the cool air gave rise to small clouds of mist before the air claimed the warmth for itself just like the ground slowly – albeit greedily – sucked up precious life through smaller cracks while his body lay broken – worthless and discarded – waiting for the seemingly inevitable as blood continued to leak – more sluggishly now – from his body, riddled with wounds of greater or lesser severity. Then again, the severity mattered little to him; by all means, he should already have lost more than enough blood to perish, and if the blood loss did not get to him first, the exposure to the elements would, with temperatures dropping beneath the level of freezing.

Releasing a shuddering breath, he cracked his eyes – _or was it his eye now? He was not quite certain as to which_ – open. His reward consisted of a blurry outline of a world he had always hated and a searing pain confirming what he had already come to terms with. The pain however was nothing like it had been initially; initially, he had been immersed in agony. Now, he no longer writhed. Numbness crept upon him, and with it, a strange sense of peace. Admittedly, he had never really had all that much to do with people – well, no more than absolutely necessary anyway – but if he recalled things correctly, he had heard from somewhere that death was cold. Then again, with him lying on his side, ultimately bleeding out, the question as to whether this recollection could be trusted was highly debatable.

His eyebrows furrowed, and with the action, he received a painful reminder of it being a generally stupid idea. Then again, however distant compared to earlier, the pain did keep him awake and reasonably lucid, which should have been a good thing, but for some reason was not.

Death was not the problem; death had never been the problem. It was the waiting part and the slowness of it that was agonising, because even with all the things that had gone down perhaps hours prior to him lying there bleeding out, he wanted it over with quickly, so that he could at once head off to wherever people headed once they were no more.

As something cold fell from above and landed on his cheek, he sucked in a breath through his nostrils, lifting his head slightly; it sounded remarkably much like a sob, but he was not crying – not anymore at any rate. Vaguely he wondered whether this could possibly have been what Mana had meant back then. He stared blearily at his arms as one – his right – lay folded against his chest, him having since long lost feeling in it and it in turn having abandoned its quest to keep the blood from flowing freely, and his other – his left – lay straightened on the ground as if either reaching for something unknown or as if expecting a gift of some sort, presenting his strange palm to the mourning skies.

A single flake of snow fell down from above and into it, melting shortly after impact.

His left arm – limp and useless – had always been warmer than the rest of him. With it being red and scaly and with a weakly glowing cross imbedded into his palm, he occasionally wondered why he even considered it a part of his body when it obviously did not listen to him. Even once it had moved – at long last – it had failed to listen; it had contradicted his will entirely, slashing through his intended future before once again becoming useless as his own body crumbled from the wounds inflicted upon it. He had stayed on the ground since, not really feeling any particular need to get up. Without Mana, he was as good as dead anyway, and he would rather have it sooner than later if he was able to choose.

As if somehow sensing his intentions, the fingertips of that supposedly unusable arm of his gave a noticeable twitch. For whichever reason, this caused a bleak – but undeniably wry – smile to cross his face as he sunk back into a haze of quietly falling snow and of himself stumbling on top of top soil hardened by the cold.

_"Is he dead?"_

His head was back against the ground, cold earth against the drying blood covering most of the left part of his face, but he was also somewhere else; reliving another day of softly falling snow.

_"He's dead."_

_No. _He released another shuddering breath, oddly relaxed despite it all._ Not yet._

**- o0o -**

_And so, the boy fell into a deep sleep…_

_Amongst the grey ashes, the flames breathed…_

_One by one, swelling onto that lovely face…_

_Thousands of dreams, trickling back to earth…_

_Dreams…_

**- o0o -**

A single silver-grey eye cracked back open and a soft exhalation brought about another cloud of mist. _Dreams?_

A man in black – with long flaming hair – stood over him.

**- o0o -**

_Leafless trees, with branches like fingers seeking to grasp the skies…_

_A madman – a clown – digging a hole in the ground before gently laying an ageing dog to rest there…_

**- o0o -**

Red averted his eyes from the spectacle; he had already seen enough. "He's covered in bruises," he said, and when the clown did not appear to have any notion of shutting him up, he went on, his voice frank as he spoke. "Cosimo probably did it, because the audience likes you more than him. He hates that, when people outdo him. He's got no talent, except when it comes to things like this…"

The clown said nothing, filling the makeshift grave with soil, covering the carcass entirely and giving the pile an almost affectionate pat before placing a small star-patterned ball on top of it. "He was an old dog," the clown finally said, brushing lingering soil from his palms. "He wouldn't have lived for much longer anyway, so it's alright."

He huffed, because it obviously wasn't. "You're not getting revenge?"

It was a meaningless question, because in the end, revenge was meaningless – at least if the person one tried to get even with could get hold of and beat one senseless all over again.

"If I did that, I'd get thrown out of here and wouldn't get paid," the clown quipped light-heartedly. "I'm a newcomer after all… After tomorrow, I'll head somewhere new…"

"I see." He didn't care; it had nothing to do with him.

"So, who are you anyway?"

Yet another meaningless question.

"I do odd jobs around here. I brought you food the other day." He was no one; a dirty brat of little or no value, with dirty reddish hair and a slightly deformed reddish arm, scaly and all.

"I have a bad memory for faces," the clown readily admitted, and Red let out a somewhat irritated huff, turning on his heel. However, before he was able to make himself brief, the clown seemed to pay renewed attention to his state of being. "Oh my! You're covered in bruises too, aren't you?"

When hands reached for him, he naturally startled, but at the noticeable softening of the clown's facial expression, he found himself staying his ground even though his instincts were telling him _runrunrunrun_. Moments later, he found himself protesting against a finger smearing old-man spit onto his bruised cheek, insisting it was gross whilst the clown insisted it was disinfectant. At the time, the meaning of this word had not been quite apparent to him, but with him scooting away from the supposedly deranged spit-smearing maniac, he hardly felt the need to ask.

"Did Cosimo beat you up?" the clown asked, and Red told him to shut up, still fervently trying to get rid of the spit smeared onto his cheek. "Don't you have any friends?"

He bristled slightly, but refrained from hitting the man, because highly irritating qualities aside, the clown hardly deserved bearing the brunt of his frustrated anger at his own situation. "When I grow up… I'm getting out of here as soon as I'm strong enough, so I don't need friends," he said, averting his eyes once more only to level the other with an irritated glare as the other started making faces at him, seemingly seeking to entice him to laugh. "And I hate clowns."

The clown ceased his clowning and remained in a crouched position, eyeing him a bit thoughtfully. "Well, I hate crowds and children who don't laugh."

Red snorted inwardly. Then, he directed his eyes towards the covered grave of the man's once faithful companion. "Aren't you gonna cry?" he asked, not really realising why he felt this sudden need to know. "He lived with you for a long time, didn't he? Aren't you sad?"

"I'm so sad that I could die, but I can't cry," the clown explained, expression wistful and a bit sad. "Maybe my tears have all dried up. They just won't come."

"What's up with that?" Red found himself asking, wary giving way to childish and childlike curiosity. "What was his name? He licked my hand yesterday. His tongue was warm…"

The clown levelled him with a look, and he flushed involuntarily. Admittedly, he was a child – seven perhaps, give or take a few months or years – but there was still something in the look that he was given that made him want to avert his eyes; that made him want to disappear right then and there, and he turned on his heel and did just that, stopping only once he was at a reasonable distance and out of sight and stopping only because he felt something on his face. The realisation that he was actually crying only served to frustrate him even further, and he hid himself away in a space where he knew he was unlikely to be bothered, curling up and breathing calmly, willing the tears away.

It could have been minutes or hours, but in either case, the mad clown was nowhere to be found once Red left his temporary shelter, no doubt having taken the opportunity to move on now that there was nothing keeping him there anymore. Red envied this, and a part of him briefly entertained the thought of leaving and maybe catching up, but he steeled himself, because such dreams were dangerous and led nowhere except further down the drain.

He stood before the grave of Allen the Dog, eyes levelling on the ball laid out on top of the makeshift grave. Then – unable to escape a sudden notion of having been left behind – he kicked it, sending it flying.

He tried to persevere; he tried to forget. All in all, he lasted another three months, and once he ran, he did so with a concussion, a fractured rib and without looking back, ending up as a street kid in London, as it had been the closest city to him at the time. In hindsight, it had probably been a stupid thing to do. Then again, in hindsight, it had probably been just about the only thing he could have done lest he wanted to get himself killed, seeing that Cosimo had made that part pretty clear to him.

Admittedly, at the time, he started out as injured and only had one usable arm, but he had good instincts and quite a bit of strength once he grew desperate enough. His encounters – and eventual confrontations – with the other kids of the street were few and far in-between, with them avoiding each other and each other's territory whenever possible, even though Red hardly had much of a territory of his own, spending his time drifting. Once, he had been ambushed by a group of slightly older kids, and it was after that whole affair that some kids took to calling him 'the Dog', because apparently, he fought like one. He could practically taste the irony of it.

Two years later – as he passed a crowded plaza looking for pockets to pick – he found himself face to face with an eerily familiar mad clown who despite his allegedly bad memory for faces somehow managed to not only recognise him – face lighting up like some bloody Christmas decoration – but also managed to track him down amongst the winding back alleys and corner him to the boot – _him_, who knew those alleys like the back of his hand, be it right or left.

The clown – then without his usual clownish attire and in a more normal albeit somewhat worn-out – had naturally had his work cut out for him, because his canine nickname aside, Red could also fight like a feral cat. Ultimately, Mana – such was the name of the clown, Mana Walker – had resorted to bribing, and despite the insistence of his instincts, Red had accepted the bribes, reasoning that the other would probably go away again soon anyway, and he did, but he dragged Red along.

Though initially wary and a bit unwilling, the lack of a need for him to scavenge or steal to get enough food to last the day was what had him staying, seeing that the madman – that Mana Walker – merely sought company and seemed to have no problem performing to earn enough money for the both of them.

It was hardly a luxurious life, but from all the ones he had known up until that point, it was practically paradise. As such, he should have known better than to think that it would last long.

Perhaps a little more than a year later, on Christmas Eve of all eves of the year, Mana was the one dead in the ground and the newly dubbed Allen – formerly Red – was the one standing by the gravesite, feeling so unbelievably lost and hollow that he had not been quite sure as to what to make of himself.

Fortunately – or rather, unfortunately, all things considered – someone who could possibly have been the Devil himself turned up to offer up helpful advice as to what Allen should make of himself. "All you need to do is to call out. Call out to him, and I will revive Mana Walker~"

In hindsight, he had to wonder just what on earth had possessed him to even attempt such a thing.

**- o0o -**

"_How dare you?!"_

**- o0o -**

"_How dare you turn me into an akuma?!"_

**- o0o -**

"_I curse you!" _

**- o0o -**

"_I curse you, Allen Walker!"_

**- o0o -**

It had been a stupid decision, and he carries the reminder of that engraved on his face.

At fifteen, he is still a dirty brat of little or no value – well, according to Cross Marian at any rate – but his hair is no longer reddish, having bled white in the time immediately following his foolish attempt, a time he himself remembers very little of.

After almost four years on the road with Cross – with the exorcist general renowned for his loose morals, womanising, twisted personality and ridiculous drinking and spending habits – he is still a bit on the scrawny side, but doing better than ever since he now has two functional arms at his disposal, one of which is his Innocence, which has recently turned black. Cross – who in general wants very little to do with dirty brats of little or no value – gets this wry look when he first bears eyes upon the new shape of it whilst Allen has it invocated, before finally barking at Allen to stop clowning around and to hurry up and finish up the rest of the akuma if he wants to continue sleeping with a roof over his head.

Not particularly minding sleeping beneath the stars, Allen ignores him, but when the rebound finally hits and he blacks out, he wakes up back in bed with Timcanpy fussing over him and Cross nowhere to be found. Admittedly, the latter is hardly unusual – what is unusual is rather the massive tray abundant with various foods that is stashed on a table at the room's farther end. Directing his attention back towards Timcanpy, Allen raises an eyebrow in question.

"_You're even more useless than usual when you're hungry,"_ he hears Cross say, voice relayed by the golden golem's recording.

Allen snorts openly, sliding off of the bed. Feet impacting on the cold marble floor beneath him, a shiver runs through him, but he stands up without much difficulty and makes his way over, snatching whichever dish appears the most appetising. Judging from the great degree of variation as well as on the seeming quality of the raw ingredients, Allen wagers that Cross' new sponsor has to be someone high-ranking, or at least someone wealthy enough to sustain a similar lifestyle. Admittedly, India is far cry from what he would consider ideal in terms of climate, but the cuisine on the other and along with the abundance of his portions makes it his favourite thus far.

"_Next time, I'll just dump you into the river and finally be rid of you," _Cross' voice promises, and Allen calmly discards it as a mostly empty threat, taking another bite out of a piece of chicken.

**- o0o -**

"_It was a stupid thing to do… the thing that you did."_

_He sits on the side of a bed, exhausted even though he has probably slept for a long time, staring unblinkingly at the only partially familiar room around him. "I know," he finally answers, and his voice is quiet, a testament to his weariness. "I just… thought it would have been nice if we could stay together… for some time still."_

"_He would have killed you."_

_He closes his eyes; after all this time spent in darkness, light still stings in them. "I know."_

"_He would have worn your skin."_

_He keeps his eyes closed, but dips his head slightly. "I know."_

_A disdainful scoff is heard. "You really don't have a shred of self-preservation, do you?"_

_He opens his eyes again, eyes unwavering. "I'm still here, am I not?"_

_Whether this is a sarcastic statement on his part or a plea for reassurance eludes him._

"_You're only here because your Innocence decided your life was worth saving," Cross mutters, tinkering with whichever. "The reason for it doing such a thing in the first place however is beyond me."_

_Allen closes his eyes again. There is a word at the very edge of his tongue – a four-letter word beginning with the letter L – but he does not utter it, delaying the inevitable confrontation._

"_It's a parasite, right?" he says instead, lying down onto his side and curling up. "If so, then it would be troubled if its host died too early in the game…"_

_Again, Cross scoffs at him without even sparing him a look. "There are other potential hosts. In the end, no one is irreplaceable."_

"_Perhaps." Allen lets his head fall to rest against the mattress, staring at the man's back. "Then again, perhaps not."_

_The exorcist general does not pause._

_Allen feels this sudden urge to throw something at him, but knows better. Instead, he decides to experiment, and the name he can recall overhearing in his reoccurring dreams slips past his lips before he can reconsider the wisdom of it. "Neah."_

_The man pauses, but does not turn around._

_Allen rolls onto his back, staring impassively at the ceiling. "It rings a bell, doesn't it?"_

"_And if it does, you imbecile?"_

_He rolls over onto his other side so that he has his back to Cross, contemplating the matter briefly before finally coming to a decision. "No, it's nothing…" he decides. "Nothing overly important at any rate…"_

**- o0o -**

Lying on top of the bed, he opens his eyes, because he has both of them back now. One of them is connected with the curse – with the curse Mana put on him – and occasionally, whenever there are akuma nearby, he hears voices – screams too, of souls in agony. He sees them too – the souls – and he no longer averts his eyes because he needs to see them; he needs to be reminded. Cross scoffs at him for doing that, barking at him not to linger any longer than necessary; not to develop any unnecessary attachments. Allen tells Cross to mind his own business.

**- o0o -**

Silver-grey eyes – indifferent yet so full of emotions – shift their attention, levelling on the open doorway as he catches the echoing sounds of his mentor's footsteps. Even now, he steadfastly refuses to refer to the other as his master; ultimately, he is but a stray without a master, staying with the man only because it had been a beneficial agreement for them both. At one point in time, Cross might have tested the limits of his patience – much like Allen regularly tested his – and done so by dumping a load of debts on him, expecting him to pay up.

The first time around, Allen – having been made privy to the general contents – had picked up the throwing knife he had been practicing with earlier and thrown it in Cross' general direction. The second time, he put that very same knife against his own throat and the third time around, he had merely shrugged, grabbing hold of a colourful shawl from a nearby hanger and draping it over his head and shoulders, announcing that he would be off to sell himself on the street, and for whichever reason, the third time had been the last.

Then again, after that, Allen had begun honing his poker skills – mostly his skills in cheating – to get some additional pocket money which could be put into an emergency budget whenever Cross' sponsorship came to an end, keeping them afloat until Cross found some other rich widow to seduce. Allen does it partially because there is easy money to make and partially because there is an undeniable thrill in doing so. In the past as well as in the present, some might have accused him of having a twisted personality, and in the past as well as in the present, he would naturally blame it all on Cross being a lousy role model and an even worse influence.

The footsteps come to a stop. Cross stands in the doorway, leaning lazily against it.

"Is it time?" Allen asks, his eyes once again resting on the vaulted ceiling.

He is answered by the sound of a glass bottle being slammed firmly onto a table, and his attention automatically flickers towards it. Catching sight of the two cups there, his eyebrows furrow. He sits himself up, frowning openly now. "Cross… really?"

Alcohol really isn't his thing, and he is hardly even old enough to drink it, much less hold it. However, Cross pours him a glass – insisting – and Allen snorts, accepting the small cup. Silver-grey eyes level on the bright red liquid swimming in it. Then, he shoots his mentor of four years a disdainful glare. "I know this kind of thing isn't your way of doing things… but, just to sate my curiosity… what did you put in it?"

"It's either that or a hammer blow to the head," Cross informs him, downing the contents held in his own cup. "One or the other."

Allen suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at this, levelling his eyes on the cup anew. Then, he raises it in a mockery of a toast. "To chaos," he says, and downs the thing.

**- o0o -**


	2. Amongst the Grey Ashes

_As I have been experiencing a few problems with a few of my other fics (t14A, NA, etc.), this decided it wished to be written instead (along with the following chapter, which is a tad more interesting and will probably turn up once I've had time to proof-read it…). Cheers._

**- o0o -**

**Amongst the Grey Ashes**

**- o0o -**

A huge pile of paper – presumably reports – is dumped onto his desk by the ever diligent Reever Wenham, who – relieved of his quite heavy burden – seems to be in no hurry whatsoever to leave the office. Presumably, the most diligent man lingers in order to make sure that the man at the desk actually processes the newest batch of paperwork and does not automatically add them to the vast sea of paperwork strewn all over the floor of the office the aforementioned would much rather leave to go work on any of his experiments. Truly, how devious of said subordinate.

With a sigh, Komui Lee puts his cup of coffee aside, glancing somewhat lazily at the pile currently lying on top of his desk. "Yes, Reever?"

"Take a look," the Australian says, gesturing towards the pile. "It's _important_," he adds, empathising the latter.

"Define important," Komui quips, snatching the file on top to rest his eyes upon it. It takes a few moments before the meanings of the words at top of the page finally begin to mean something to him – no doubt helped along by the caffeine finally getting to his brain and revitalising it, however temporarily – and his eyes snap up, his gaze levelling at Reever for a brief moment before returning to the page, reading with genuine interest this time around. "This… Has it been confirmed?"

"There have been rumoured sightings all over the place," Reever responds, shrugging mildly. "None of ours have seen it – yet, mind you – but the sightings are far too many to be passed off as mere coincidences; they merit further investigation."

"Says who?" Komui wonders out loud, somewhat rhetorically, as he is already very much aware of the answer.

"Says you," Reever says, sifting through the pile and retrieving a particular piece of paper and handing it over. "Now sign."

"Will you liberate me from this..." – Komui makes a slight gesture in the general direction of the pile along with the sea of paperwork surrounding his desk. – "If I sign it?"

Reever's overall facial expression doesn't change. "If you don't, someone might double it."

Komui tilts his head slightly to the side. "And if some of it were to perish in a little… accident?"

"Triple it."

"But…"

"Quadruple it."

Occasionally, Komui Lee – the supervisor of the European Branch of the Black Order – regrets entering this line of work.

"Brother?"

He looks up at the raven-haired beauty he has the honour of calling his younger sister. However temporarily, his grievances all melt away in the rays of her blinding smile.

"More coffee?"

Truthfully, he could do without the coffee. If he would have been able to see her smile each and every day, that would have been enough. However, one does not always yet what one wishes for…

"A new mission?" Putting the pot of coffee aside, she leans forward in interest.

He smiles reassuringly. "I was thinking about sending a few people to investigate an incident in an abandoned church nearby," he says, only partially truthfully. "It's probably nothing, but investigating it further wouldn't…"

She returns the smile. He merely hopes he isn't sending her into something dangerous.

"By the way," he says as she moves to leave the room. "If you happen to see Kanda on the way out, tell him that I want to see him. It's about a mission."

She leaves, and within a quarter of an hour, Kanda Yu appears, outwardly stoic. "A mission?"

Komui fishes the desired file out of the sea of paperwork and holds it out. "We've recently lost contact with the group we sent to investigate the rumours of the ghost in the abandoned city of Martel," he explains, straight to the point for once. "I need someone competent."

The raven-haired exorcist scoffs, but there is a hint of amusement to the motion. "You need me to deploy now?"

"I'm not telling you to get out right now," Komui responds. "I would be happy if you could deploy today though…"

This time around, a fleeting smirk crosses the other's face. Then, the young man pulls the most essential papers out of the folder, folds them and sticks them into his pocket, already headed for the door. "I'll leave within the hour."

Komui frowns lightly in response. Then again, it isn't as though he himself is completely oblivious to the fact that some – Kanda included – have little or no love for headquarters and get highly irritable whenever stuck there for long. Then again, with Kanda being Kanda, there's also…

"Kanda," he calls after him, and the young man actually pauses in his stride, already halfway out of the door. "Don't forget to buy me a few-…" – He looks up, finding that the doorway is already empty. – "…-souvenirs…"

**- o0o -**

_"__How dare you?!"_

**- o0o -**

_"__How dare you?!"_

- o0o -

_"__How dare you turn me into an akuma?!"_

- o0o -

_"__I curse you!" _

- o0o -

_"__I curse you, Allen Walk-…!"_

- o0o -

"Ugh."

He wakes up in a quite familiar position, lying on his side in a vaguely familiar place. This time however, it is neither the floor nor some other uncomfortable surface. Instead, he finds himself in a moderately sized bed, curled up amongst silky sheets that certainly are not his own. They are red too, and Allen cannot help but think that it is a dreadful colour, as it reminds him all too much about blood, all too much about Cross and all too much about red wine, towards neither of which he holds any particular liking or affection.

A vaguely familiar – albeit anonymous – woman in her late twenties appears in the room's doorway, carrying a cupful of tea and stirring it slowly with a spoon. "You okay, honey?"

Though he barely suppresses a twitch at the rather unusual pet name, he shows no outward reaction, regarding her in silence for a moment before answering. "It's just a bit of a migraine." He raises himself into a seated position before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "Happens all the time," he adds, gratefully accepting the cup as she hands it over, taking a seat beside him.

He means to be reassuring – really – but judging from the mild frown visible to him even in the darkness, she is by no means reassured. It shows, not only on her face but also in her body language.

As he moves to sip his tea, she shifts closer to him, leaning slightly against his side. "My most recent benefactor gave me these," she tells him, running her fingertips over the silky sheets, a distant look on her face which gradually melts to something akin to bitterness. "But there is no telling as to how long it will last," she goes on to say. "One of these days, he will find himself some younger trollop and then it's back to the streets again…"

"Sounds like a pig," Allen casually notes, putting the now empty tea cup onto the bedside table.

She smiles bleakly, but shuffles closer again and opts to hovering worriedly around him as he lets out another hiss and brings his hands – one bare and one gloved – up to his head. Then, she moves so that she is behind him on the bed and gently pushes his hands away and puts her own there instead, fingertips massaging his scalp with practiced ease.

He still carries an aversion of touch – as she had discovered during their initial encounter – but allows it, as her touch is tender and honestly concerned; it is not devoid of underlying intentions, merely of harmful ones. He lets her go about her business, as it is beneficial for the both for them; for him because her expert fingers work their way through some of the unresolved tensions in his head and neck and for her as she yearns for company and a human touch which demands no submission. "Your hair," she finally says, playing around with a few tousled locks of it. "Would you like for me to cut it?"

She does not ask about the colour; neither does she ask about his scars, both those apparent and those hidden from sight, along with that peculiar left arm of his. Briefly, Allen entertains the thought as to whether she sees the traces left by hardship as he does in her, but he swiftly pushes the thought away, knowing better than to ponder such things. "I quite like it like it actually," he says, giving her a look out of the corner of his eye. "Even if it can be a bit high maintenance at times…"

She withdraws her skilful fingertips from his scalp and moves to sit beside him again, watching him with something akin to amusement. "I could braid it for you," she offers, and he scoffs softly in response. "Or," she continues, slipping off the bed and making her way towards a chest of drawers. "I'll just let you borrow a comb and something to tie your hair with?"

"Borrow?" Allen repeats, actually lifting his head slightly as she returns with the item in question. "Will you be expecting it back?"

She smiles bleakly in the darkness. "Somehow," she says, placing the comb into his hand. "I doubt that I'll be seeing either of you after tonight."

"Somehow," Allen responds a bit thoughtfully, twirling the item between his fingers. "I think you're correct."

She tilts her head slightly. Then, she walks up to the window, pushing the curtains aside to look out into the night. "It's a cold and ruthless world out there," she says. "You're still young. Don't you have any family to go back to?"

He snorts softly in response. "I'll go meet them when I'm ready," he finally says, not really bothering with the specifics, just as she carefully avoids making any significant references to her own. He rises to his feet, straightening his clothes out as they have become somewhat crumpled during his brief attempt at sleep. "And I still have a far way to go."

She turns, leaning her back against the windowsill, and watches him with eyes that are strangely bright. "Then what?" she whispers, her voice harshening somewhat. "Where are you heading? For what? What do you seek?"

He seeks a lot of things, but in the end, they are merely his excuses. "Nothing much," he eventually responds, making his way to where his worn-out coat is still on the hanger where he had left it. He puts it back on, sliding the comb into one of his pockets before stooping down to put his boots back on. "I don't really have much of a place to return to anymore, so… why not just wander around for a bit?"

"For how long?"

His hand is already on the doorknob, but he humours her, turning his head to look at her where she stands a bit of a distance away, arms wrapped around herself, watching him. He smiles bleakly, twisting the doorknob. "Until I grow sick of it."

He leaves quickly, turning back only once when he has made his way down to the street to give her a slight wave where she now stands in the window, watching him go. Once he has finally made it beyond the reach of her gaze, he reaches into one of his hidden pockets and liberates a much ruffled and rather upset Timcanpy, who bares his teeth at him. "Yeah, yeah, sorry about that," he says, smiling apologetically whilst holding his hand out. "It's better now, so…" He leaves the sentence hanging in the air, pulling off his glove to reveal his left hand, which had up until then been wrapped tightly in _ofuda_ to keep his curse from acting up.

It had taken a lot of effort – along with a significant amount of cunning – on his part to make Cross teach him a few spells for the sake of convenience, especially so since his Innocence – and the curse alongside it – did possess the nasty habit of acting up without consulting him about it. Then again, there had also been a point in time when his sleep – be it in the day or in the night – had been so constantly disturbed by his curse acting up that it had reached a point when he had threatened either self-mutilation or homicide lest some kind of remedy was imminently provided.

Then again, back then, his range had been significantly smaller than in the present, so if he had not possessed the means to at least temporarily hamper the effects once his range had increased, then he would with all due likelihood have been forced to resort to desperate measures. After all, even though he more often than not chooses to respond to the calls of trapped souls as they reach him, he too is a human and humans need to rest occasionally, because otherwise they get sleep-deprived, deteriorate and die even sooner than they would otherwise.

Admittedly, he did not use such means all that often, both because they lost their efficiency if he used them long enough for his Innocence to become habituated to them and because he did no one any favours and temporarily put himself at risk by dulling his senses to the presence and possible approach of akuma, even though it was highly unlikely that he would become the target of any specific attack at the present time. After all, whilst he could track them even at a fairly sizeable distance, they did not possess any known ability to pinpoint his location lest he intentionally called their attention to himself. In turn, this did provide him with an advantage, though it was not an advantage he would have all-year-round, day after day, all the time if it came at the cost of his mental stability.

In the end, he wasn't even powerful enough to restrain his Innocence entirely; at best, he now possessed the ability to calm it and to keep it from acting up lest he ended up in any greater amount of danger. In other words, if he was attacked, the Innocence could easily break the seal, as had already been proven to him through the means of trial and error.

Regardless, he finds magic – sealing techniques included – highly convenient, though he also knows his own skill in it is severely limited in general. Then again, as he is now – at least technically speaking – on his own, there is a limit to the things that can be accomplished in the aforementioned field. As for experience on the other hand, he might lack a great deal of it, but with trial and error comes results, and with that comes experience.

Admittedly, he did have a general policy not to make his failures known regardless of whether they were of the greater of the lesser kind; ultimately, it only made sense to keep one's cards as close to one's chest as possible, because even though he had become quite proficient at fighting, it still made sense to keep at least one – if not several – cards up one's sleeve at all times. Speaking of which…

"Akuma," he mumbles softly to Timcampy and turns his head slightly. "Level Twos… Southeast, 200 metres… Northwest, 150…"

Taking a deep breath, he collects himself. Then, activating his Innocence, he takes off.

- o0o -

"_The White Demon?"_

- o0o -

The female exorcist known to the world as Lenalee Lee sits by a table of a cramped apartment in London, processing what she has just been told. "The White Demon?" she repeats, sounding both sceptical and intrigued as she lifts her gaze from the steaming cup of tea and levels it on the face of the brown-haired woman whose apartment they currently occupy.

The woman – whose name had briefly been mentioned in the file somewhere, but at the moment, it escapes her – scoffs mildly, putting her own cup back down onto the table with just a tiny bit more force than necessary. "The Angel of Death might be slightly more appropriate," the woman finally says, pushing her glasses further up her nose. She looks tired – weary – and Lenalee wonders just what she could possibly have been through as of late. "It wears a mask and a large cloak which at the first glance looks like wings to some," the woman goes on. "Some even say that it has a set of long claws, or that there are long blades sprouting from its fingertips, and that those slashed by them are reduced to dust…"

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. There is a word on her tongue, and it slips from her tongue and out her mouth before she can stop it. "Akuma…"

"A demon?" The woman is looking out the nearby window, a somewhat wry yet dejected look gracing her features. "Had you claimed the same thing before all of this, I wouldn't have believed you. Now however… after what I saw… I really don't know what to believe."

"Officer Moa Hesse, was it?" Lenalee is still uncertain about the name, so she decides to ask.

"It's Moor actually," Miss Hesse corrects her, but does so without spite, levelling her with a brief look before once again looking out the window, something distant in her eyes. "But you can just call me Moor or Hesse if you want," she goes on to claim, some hint of bitterness entering her voice. "I'm not a police officer anymore."

Lenalee knows that she shouldn't ask, but does so anyway. "What happened?"

"A lot happened, in a lot of ways," Moor Hesse responds, staring down at her teacup as though she has temporarily forgotten what to do with it. "Besides, since the investigation is still pending, I'm…" – She pauses briefly, biting her lower lip. – "My partner Charles and I were investigating a number of disappearances having taken place in this church," she then reveals whilst continuing to observe the aforementioned building, as it is located right across the street. "It has stood abandoned for some time now, and travellers who lack the funds necessary to stay over at an inn occasionally stay there; the local strays know better than to venture anywhere near it…"

Lenalee waits for her to elaborate, torn between whether to keep silent or to offer up some sort of vocal cue or encouragement. Meanwhile, the former officer looks indecisive, frowning down at her rapidly cooling tea. "It's… difficult to describe it…" – She pauses briefly, still frowning. – "But I do know that I saw a boy in there."

"A boy?"

"Everything's a bit blurry, but I clearly remember as much," Moor explains, lifting her gaze slightly. "There was a boy there, in a worn-out coat, really pale… I did try to get a better look at him, but I only really caught a glimpse of his face…"

Lenalee says nothing, waiting simply for the other to continue speaking.

"There was something running along the side of his face," Moor explains. "And I clearly remember seeing this…" – Moor draws the outline of a symbol on the table in-between them. – "On his forehead."

The symbol along with its supposed location causes her to barely refrain from shuddering. Her throat suddenly a lot drier than usual, Lenalee swallows instead and asks the question which answer she both dreads and eagerly awaits. "An inverted pentagram? Are you certain?"

A noncommittal shrug answers her. "Fairly," Moor eventually yields, braiding her fingers and leaning her chin onto them, elbows propped up against the table as she in turn looks at Lenalee with clear – sharp, but admittedly weary – eyes. "Does this hold any particular significance?"

Privately, Lenalee wonders just what kind of info she ought to make the other privy to and what would be better off unknown. "You could say that…" she finally yields after a brief moment of hesitation. "You could say that it is the mark of an akuma."

"The mark…" The earlier frown returns to Moor's face. Then, the strange intensity of her gaze diminishes, and she is once again looking out the window. Lenalee finds it mildly unnerving to say the very least. "Um, Miss Moor?" she tries instead, hoping her persistence will not add to the other's underlying ire. "Do you remember anything else?"

Moor Hesse's eyes snap back to her immediately, looking surprised for a brief moment before softening noticeably. "I'm sorry," she says, and she sounds like she actually means it. "I got a bit caught up in my thoughts."

"It's okay," Lenalee assures her, because it is. "It's perfectly alright." She pauses, sorting things out momentarily before formulating yet another question. "The boy, can you tell me more about him?"

Moor untangles her interlinked fingers and takes a sip out of her now lukewarm tea, looking thoughtful. "He was holding a cat."

Lenalee herself isn't entirely certain as to what to make of that. "A… cat?"

"Yes," Moor affirms, continuing to sip at her tea. "He was holding a cat…"

The lack of understanding must have shown on her face, because Moor decides to elaborate without prompting this time around. "There was a mist," she says. "A thick and suffocating one that made it really hard to breathe. I think I must've blacked out for a bit, because the next thing I remember is coming to on the floor… with that thing standing over me."

"That thing? The White Demon?"

Moor puts her cup back onto the table. "It just stood there, looking down at me," she says. "I could not see its eyes very clearly, but it was clearly looking at me. And then it tilted its head and-…"

"And?"

She sighs, some degree of weariness once again evident in her posture. "The next thing I know, I wake up at the police station to the sound of my superior yelling at me, demanding that I'd tell him what had happened…" – The wry and somewhat bitter smile returns to her face. – "A pretty difficult thing to do if you don't know very well for yourself, don't you think? Telling my superior I'd seen a demon is not the way to do it. There are better ways to get fired."

"But what about-…?" It is highly insensitive to ask, but since it is an investigation, she still needs to know.

Moor gets up, leaving the table and returning with the tea kettle, pouring herself another cup and offering Lenalee a refill, the latter of which is politely declined. "The only thing they found of Charles was his clothes… lying in a pile of ashes, and it wasn't the only one," Moor finally explains as she reclaims her seat at the table. "We've found ashes here earlier, along with clothes. A bit strange, yes, but hardly unexplainable. But…" – She pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing. – "Seeing Charles… along with finding what was left of Marc… I can hardly ignore things anymore."

"Marc?" Lenalee inquires, because the name is new to her.

"My brother-in-law," Moor explains, stirring the tea inside her cup. "He was wheelchair-bound, so it isn't as though he could have just walked off without it and his clothes and all. And then, there were the ashes…"

"I'm sorry." She is, truly. Moor on the other hand remains dismissive.

"It's hardly your fault," Moor says, giving a helpless shrug. "Besides, whatever it was, it's not around anymore…" she goes on to claim, clearly referring to the suspected akuma. "I went back, and I searched every nook and cranny I could reach, and there was nothing. But…"

"But?" Lenalee repeats, unable to help herself.

Moor levels her with another look. Then, she pushes the teacup aside and rises to her feet anew, heading for the door. "It's probably easier to show you," she says. "One can only hope no one has turned up to vandalise it yet."

Following along, Lenalee knows that she could have just about anything waiting for her. However, having steeled herself for the possibility of coming face to face with something positively gruesome, the scene before her seems strangely off and a tad unreal as it lies before them in a kind of orderly disarray, and within it are several piles of ashes, and in each and every one of them, there are…

"Crosses?" she blurts out before she can stop herself, overlooking the eerie scene.

"One each," Moor says, looking like she is about to shudder. "For all the disappearances that we know of, and then some…" – She pauses briefly, trailing off. – "It's a bit strange, don't you think?"

Calling the scene strange is a grave understatement. Still, Lenalee finds that she has a hard time imagining just what would be a better arrangement of it all, strangely enough. "Who on earth could have-…?" she begins, but goes quiet as there is the sound of shuffling somewhere off at the farther end of the church. She instinctively turns her head, trying to locate the source of it. Hearing it again, it takes her merely moments to place it, and once she does, her eyebrow climbs slightly. She looks towards Moor, who returns the look. "A cat?" she says, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

Moor steps forward, moving in direction of one of the corners, and then motions for her to come. She does, and Moor gestures towards it. "Kittens." Lenalee finds herself crouching down to look at them – along with their mother – more closely despite also knowing it is hardly the time nor the place to wonder at such things.

"It's the same," she hears Moor mumble behind her. "It's the cat that I saw – the one with the boy."

_The boy?_

Lenalee immediately directs her attention back towards the cat, finally taking note of something, her eyes widening slightly at the realisation. "It's been treated…" she says, and although that in itself is hardly anything to make much of a fuss over, she can still tell that there is something distinct about this; something remarkable. Then, she startles slightly as Moor's hand lands on her shoulder, grasping it firmly. She looks back at her, and then – taking note of the sudden pallor of Moor's face – in the direction which she is pointing, following it to one of the broken windows, landing on the cloaked figure sitting there. For a moment, she freezes. Then, as a sudden sense of realisation finally dawns upon her, her heartbeat rapidly picks up even though she strives to remain calm, despite it all.

Moor is already reaching for her gun; Lenalee hadn't even known she had had it on her prior to this, but seeing it causes her to snap out of it all rather quickly, and she takes a step back, trying to shove Moor behind her. "Get back," she says, her senses rapidly shifting to battle mode. "Guns won't work. Let me handle this."

- o0o -

"_Is this really an akuma?"_

- o0o -


	3. One after Another

_Indeed, there is a huge – and rather classical – misunderstanding in the making. There will hopefully be a bit of a twist to the whole concept though…_

_Furthermore, as a general warning, this chapter will feature lots and lots of exposition – a ridiculous amount, in my opinion. Either way, enjoy if it pleases you._

- o0o -

**One after Another**

**- o0o -**

"_So…"_

**- o0o -**

"_How are things moving along on your end?"_

"I saw it."

"_Ah, is that so? Well, I on the other hand have been-… You saw it?"_

"At the abandoned church."

"_Are you certain?"_

"I was there alongside Miss Moor Hesse. She also saw it."

"_Did you engage it?"_

"It didn't attack us."

"_What?"_

**- o0o -**

"_I'm sorry, but could you clarify?"_

"We were investigating the premises, and it just showed up, looking exactly like the rumours said. It showed up, but didn't attack us."

"_Did it know you were there?"_

"Yes. It seemed to be taking care of an injured cat… with a litter."

"_Pardon?"_

"I tried to pursue, but it got away. The cat and its litter are both fine though; Moor's taking care of them."

"_How… nice?"_

"Brother."

"_Yes?"_

"There was something weird about it."

"_Elaborate?"_

"Miss Hesse told me that she saw a boy with that cat at the time of the incident."

"_A possible coincidence?"_

"The boy also allegedly had an inverted pentagram on his forehead. What do you make of it, Brother?"

"_Without seeing it for myself, I really can't be drawing any conclusions."_

"There might be some data to retrieve off of my golem. Should I return to HQ?"

"_For tonight, stay in the city. If you manage to track down the White Demon, pursue it. But be careful. Be back in the morning, alright?"_

"Understood."

**- o0o -**

"I'll see you soon then, Brother."

**- o0o -**

"Germany?"

She sits in her brother's office, skimming through the details of her next mission.

"Yes." Komui both looks and sounds tired, like he has had far too much to think about lately. "There has been an increase in the activity in the area," he explains, removing his glasses to clean the lenses. "Obviously, sending you out to investigate on your own might be a bit risky, but I've made contact with Lavi and Bookman. If everything goes according to plan, they should meet up with you at the border."

"Three exorcists? Isn't that a bit…?"

"There have been continued observations of the anomaly on the continent." Komui withdraws another file from the pile at his desk, holding it out for her to take. "Even a few of our finders made contact and attempted to catch it in a barrier, but it slipped right through… much like a phantom, they said."

_Phantom?_ "Are they alright, those finders?"

Having finished cleaning his lenses, Komui closes his eyes and briefly pinches the bridge of his nose before putting his glasses back on. "Minor abrasions, but nothing serious. They're currently on standby near the location of the last sighting, but it didn't seem overly interested in them, so they should be alright," he says, shifting his papers around. "The fact that it so far has yet to attack any of our people is nice, but there is no telling whether this will continue. Besides…" He pulls another piece of paper from the pile, showing it to her. "There is also this matter to consider…"

Even after looking more closely at it, she isn't entirely sure as to what she is looking at, so she looks back up at Komui. "This matter?"

With a heavy sigh, Komui flops back into his chair. "It has already been established that akuma activity escalates in its immediate vicinity before dropping noticeably…" he finally explains, weariness apparent in both his voice and his posture. "Kanda dealt with a Level-Two down in Italy a few days ago, and he reported a few things of considerable interest…" He pauses, levelling her with a very serious look. "Evolving apparently heightens their intellect, along with their ability to move around independently. It also seems to bestow some sort of special ability upon them," he says, leaning forward with a somewhat troubled look on his face. "Mind you, this is just a thought, but with the fluctuating patterns and the appearances and reappearances of that coinciding, it would make sense if it was an evolved akuma – a Level-Two, possibly even a Level-Three, at least theoretically speaking – that hunts other akuma in its immediate vicinity, consuming them in order to keep evolving…"

In a way it would make sense. Then again… "Then how come it doesn't-…"

Again, Komui looks troubled. "Heightened independence may well coincide with heightened awareness," he finally explains, heading straight into scientist mode. "Such awareness might manifest in different ways, ways that we might mistake for the ability to empathise. Then again, I suppose it is just as valid to assume that it remembers at least some of its life as a human… or something along those lines. I'm not quite sure actually. We're still working on it."

She finds herself holding back a laugh, as it is so like him to say such a thing. "Is that why you called for Bookman and Lavi?" she asks instead, because she had up until then been under the impression that they were off on some long-distance journey in the Middle East.

Komui looks vaguely uncomfortable. "Partially, yes," he finally admits, scratching his head. "Still, there is the possibility that this akuma – strange as it might be – might be the Earl's way of luring us into a trap…"

She turns her attention back to the file in her hands. "A trap?"

"The place that I want you and the others to investigate is a town in Germany, close to the area where the White Demon was last sighted," Komui explains, pulling out a map to point out the exact location. "We've lost contact with one of our operatives temporarily stationed there, and none of the finders we sent to investigate further managed to enter – there was a barrier there, invisible but unrelenting, and it encompassed the entire town. As for now, no one seems to be able to get in or out."

_No one can get in or out?_ "Then how…?"

Komui lifts his gaze, levelling her with a serious look. "If you or any of the others manage to get into that place, we obviously want to know what's going on in there… and if you can resolve the situation, then all the better," he says. "It might get dangerous."

She tries to smile reassuringly, because in her line of work, just about everything carries the risk of turning into something fatal. However, such is the reality in which they both live as members of the Black Order. Ultimately, it is a dangerous world for them both, because even though Komui spends the majority of his time back at the Black Order Headquarters, nowhere is completely safe. Besides, even if such a place would exist and one of them would be in it, it would ultimately be something akin to a prison where one was largely powerless and forced to wait patiently for the other's return or for news of them in general. Lacking the means – Innocence – to fight on the frontlines and being considered too great a resource to be allowed to put himself in danger needlessly, Komui really only had that, namely working and waiting. Besides doing paperwork and giving out missions, it was really all that he could…

"I'll be careful, Brother."

**- o0o -**

_"I wish…"_

**- o0o -**

_"I wish that tomorrow would never come…"_

**- o0o -**

_"I wish that tomorrow would never come!"_

**- o0o -**

"_Miranda, Miranda, poor, poor Miranda…"_ he repeats quietly, timing it perfectly with those singing the words out loud, namely the group of children following a gloomy-looking dark-haired woman on the streets down below. The latter – the woman – is allegedly both ugly and unlucky in addition to being plain useless if the lyrics are to be believed. _"Out looking for a job again?" _– She does that and does it a whole lot from what he has been able to observe so far. – _"You'll get fired soon anyway…" – _He can attest for that one, most definitely, as he has observed her for quite a few days now – well, in a manner of speaking, since there is little else to do whenever one gets stuck in a time loop where the same day keeps repeating over and over and over and no one barring himself and the gloomy-looking woman down below seems to notice.

It is highly interesting – outright fascinating even – but undeniably frustrating at the same time. Nevertheless, it provides a great deal of time to observe and ponder things, time which in turn brought about hypotheses. After much consideration and further observation, he had reformulated his initial assumptions. At the moment, the most likely scenario he can think of is that the aforementioned time loop has somehow been caused by Innocence, and that it only has a limited ability to affect an accommodator's perception of time. Thus, he logically assumes that the aforementioned woman is either another accommodator who has incidentally stumbled into the same mess as him and not managed to get back out, or that she is – likely unconsciously – the one more or less directly responsible for their current situation. Of course, at the present, this is merely a hypothesis of his, and though it is certainly the most likely scenario, there are still too many unknown factors and far too many different possibilities to consider. Then again, as things appeared, he does have quite a bit of time on his hands though, doesn't he?

As for the woman – Miranda Lotto – she seemed to be faring a whole lot worse than he was. Admittedly, he is annoyed by the fact that he is unable to leave the city, but he is not the one looking remarkably much like a living corpse with those hollow cheeks and eyes along with the hue of her skin, which looks pale even from the distance that he normally retains. Admittedly, when it comes to unhealthy pallor, it probably isn't his place to point fingers at anyone. Then again, it is also entirely possible that her harrowed looks has something to do with her being connected to the Innocence that is causing all of this, because he imagines that such a time loop ought to become a strain eventually, especially so on whoever has come into direct contact with it.

Even from afar, he can tell that she is quite miserable. However, even though he could technically put an end to this whole time loop and all a whole lot sooner through interfering directly, he has already decided against it, seeing that few good things ever came of getting involved in stuff that seemed troublesome.

Besides, if this Miranda Lotto really does turn out to be an accommodator of Innocence, then it would be troublesome if she ever saw his face; having that policewoman back in England catch a glimpse of him had certainly been troublesome enough, since finders all over Germany and France appeared to have received orders to be on the lookout for someone matching his approximate description.

As for the latter, a few had even attempted to catch him earlier, which had confirmed to him something that he had been suspecting for a while already.

Apparently, they seemed to be under the impression that he was an akuma of some sort. Truly, he had trouble refraining from descending into a fit of laughter when he first came to learn about that one. Then again, it isn't as though their conclusion isn't logical even though it is incorrect; they had merely drawn a plausible conclusion from the hints they had at hand at such a point, and seemingly misinterpreted his motives on the basis of their own presumptions.

Then again, all things considered, it is only a matter of time before someone intelligent took a closer look at it all and puts the pieces back together correctly. Even so, he is not about to make things any easier for the lot; especially not now that they seemed hell-bent on hunting him down and all.

Admittedly, the latter doesn't matter all that much neither to him as a person nor to the so called grand master plan. As for the latter, his instructions had been fairly vague; initially, Cross had been thinking about having him join – or infiltrate, depending on one's perspective – the Black Order. Naturally, he – Allen, that is – had presented the far superior option of doing some freelance work, since the latter provided far greater opportunities to do what Cross had really wanted him to do, namely to spread chaos in the field, amongst Black Order operatives and akuma alike.

After all, if the Order learned of his actual association and abilities – or even worse, managed to catch him – then it would ultimately only be a question of time before the spies – that the Earl had no doubt placed within the Order – learned about them.

As far as the matter of being Cross' apprentice was concerned, in the end, nothing good ever came of being a known associate of such a man. Cross – associates included – was a known thorn in the side of particularly but not exclusively the Earl; all in all, Allen can very well imagine that there are probably a whole bunch of people out there who at the very least longed to strangle the man if such an opportunity ever arose. After all, with Cross being the way he is, it would be even weirder if there weren't such people out there, and with people being the way they are in return, there is really no telling as to whether such grudges will merely be directed against Cross himself or possibly spread to include any of those misfortunate souls who however reluctantly counted themselves as said man's close associates.

Then again, spreading chaos is merely a means to achieve an end, and that end is ultimately one which will with all due likelihood benefit Cross far more than it will benefit him as it will no doubt end up making him a prime target. After all, even though the Earl already has more than enough akuma at his disposal, the latter is bound to notice that something is off sooner or later, and unlike the Order, the Earl would know for certain; the akuma was the man's arms and legs after all – and with all due likelihood also his eyes and ears – so the man would by no means make the same mistake as the Order and make careless assumptions in regards to his identity.

All in all, Allen finds it both a reassuring and a quite troubling thought. Then again, even though the Earl – and most likely the man's cohorts as well – is technically capable of revealing him for what he is, there are still other things to consider, and besides…

"The White Demon, huh?"

It does have a rather nice ring to it.

**- o0o -**

Eventually, emissaries of the Black Order decide to turn up, and three of them at that, headed by the female exorcist – Lenalee Lee – with whom he had briefly come into contact with back in England.

As for her two companions, he observes them from afar and takes note of their respective ages, general appearances and visible actions and reactions before identifying them as the current Bookman and said man's apprentice.

To be completely honest, he is a bit surprised at seeing them there, but at the same time, he is not. In either case, he immediately averts his eyes from them and moves on to a less conspicuous location, because staring at people for too long – even from quite a distance – is a sure-fire method of getting discovered, and it is still too early in the game to do so and it would – for obvious reasons – be outright foolish of him to draw any attention to himself whilst they are still trapped in the city.

Having experienced the time loop enough times to have a rudimentary and occasionally even detailed picture of what goes down in different parts of the city gives him a slight edge against any would-be pursuers, but he mostly uses this knowledge to stay clear of the exorcists and Miranda Lotto alike. He even makes the effort to stay clear of the akuma in the area, even though the latter grates on his nerves a whole lot and brings him up to the point where he is tempted to start using seals again with the way his curse keeps on acting up. Temptation aside however, he does not, because he intuitively knows that something is up; he can read as much from the movements of akuma.

Though a tad undisciplined, for Level Twos, they are far too coordinated to move around without a leader, and if they are all at the same level, they are unlikely to submit to the authority of an equal.

In turn, this would point either to them having received particular orders or to them being accompanied by someone possessing the authority to give out orders and to be obeyed too from the looks of it.

In turn, if such an individual truly did exist, then that obviously pointed to that the aforementioned had either been in town just _incidentally _– it happened, on occasion – or had somehow managed to enter what was supposedly a sealed-off space, and since the town's akuma seemed to obey them at least to some extent, it was highly unlikely that said person was a human in possession of Innocence, which in turn only really left one other possibility as far as he himself was concerned – a member of the Noah family, which would obviously complicate things even further.

In regards to the latter, he takes meticulous care not to make any direct contact once he has confirmed his theory and identified the intruder as one Road Camelot, whose undeniably childish looks and occasionally childish behaviour ultimately deceives the other fools stuck in this mess.

Allen continues to casually observe events as they unfold from what he has deemed to be a reasonably safe distance, watching as the female exorcist unsurprisingly falls into a trap, and ultimately, both the Black Order operatives present and the woman whose Innocence stuck them all in this mess to begin with have been trapped inside a dimension crafted from the dreams of Road, who is indeed none other than the Dreams of Noah.

Though naturally reasoning that the exorcists ought to be able to take care of themselves, Allen still finds himself invocating his Innocence.

Tracking down a gateway through which to make contact with the other's crafted dimension proves much easier than he had initially anticipated.

Armed as he is with Timcanpy, his own limited knowledge, skill, and creativity, and finally, a tiny amount of common sense, he enters the building containing Miranda Lotto's apartment.

Once he stands right outside the door to it, he once again questions the wisdom of his decision. Then, he softly curses to himself as he slides his small backpack from his shoulder, reaches into it and pulls out a brush along with a bottle of readily prepared ink. Before long, he starts covering the door in more and less intricate symbols from memory; nothing too fancy, just enough to send a message to rattle things up a bit.

Immediately after activating them and having confirmed that there are no malfunctions, Allen picks up his backpack and proceeds to the door leading in to the neighbouring apartment and lets himself in, already well aware of the fact that it would be empty. Then, deciding that he has made more than enough trouble for himself for the next couple of months or so, he promptly exits through the window and heads straight for the city wall, already headed for his next destination.

Following a few days spent loitering around at a small inn, he catches a train headed further southeast and ends up stepping off at a small station in some town in Romania to replenish his supplies, finding that it is the same town that he had visited along with Cross at one point to deliver a carnivorous plant – _Roseanne_, Allen vehemently recalls, having had his fair share of trouble in taking care of the thing – to some sheltered baron living in a castle nearby – one Arystar Krory or Aleister Crowley the Third or something along those lines. In either case, the aforementioned baron – _or was it a count? He really found it card to recall _– had apparently fairly recently decided to switch to a new diet, and to henceforth sustain himself through attacking villagers seemingly at random and sucking them dry.

_A vampire count, then?_

In a way, Allen does find it all just a tad amusing. At the same time, he honestly feels some amount of sympathy for the guy, who had – with all due likelihood – ended up as the accommodator of the Innocence contained within the aforementioned carnivorous plant.

Either way, having quite a bit of time to kill before the next train turned up, he decides that he might as well scout the area to prove or disprove his latest theories, but maybe first and foremost to investigate the akuma – a Level Two, if he is correct – which seems to be lurking in the castle of a supposed accommodator of Innocence.

Admittedly, good things rarely come out of prying into other people's business, but curiosity ultimately proves his undoing.

Besides, there is also the fact to consider that the aforementioned count's grandfather had possessed quite a collection – mainly focused around exotic plants, but containing a whole lot of other things as well – and that it would be to waste an opportunity if he did not scour the place for any rare books – or just any books in general – on the subject of magic.

After all, the latter were exceptionally hard to come by in these times – well, remotely useful ones, at any rate – seeing that the Church had a nasty habit of either destroying or monopolising knowledge they did not wish would fall into the hands of outsiders.

Sneaking in isn't particularly difficult either as he after leaping over the castle walls is able to stroll right up to the front door and admit himself through it, pushing it back shut behind him. Then, he heads upstairs after quietly professing his undying love for Roseanne's closer and more distant relatives.

It had been a brazen attempt to say the very least, and the fact that he makes it to the library seemingly undetected makes him wonder whether or not there are actually any additional defence measures in the castle besides the massive colony of flesh-eating plants down at the front door.

Then again, considering that the villagers from the area – and possibly those from the neighbouring villages as well – seem to be under the impression that the aforementioned count is a vampire hell-bent on hunting them down and sucking them dry one at the time, Allen imagines that there are not a whole lot of people turning up at the front gates merely to say hello – or rather, he imagines that they are unlikely to do so lest they are accompanied by a torch-and-pitchfork-bearing mob, as the belief of finding safety in numbers is often a quite fundamental part of the human societies, and quite a few animal ones as well.

Allen himself on the other hand is a quite firm believer in that whilst there is often some degree of safety found in numbers, larger groups attract unwanted attention. Admittedly, smaller groups are admittedly more vulnerable in regards to the loss of individuals. However, smaller ones are still more flexible and mobile as it generally takes less time and effort and resources to move around as a smaller unit than as a larger one. Admittedly, that in itself does not mean that it is always ideal to work alone, as there are occasions where he would be in trouble on his own, and it is usually at those times that Timcanpy proves his worth.

Technically speaking a golem or not, Timcanpy had still proved a whole lot more useful to him than most people had, even though there is admittedly a limit as to what a golem can accomplish, and even though said golem occasionally did not agree with his actions and was at such occasions keen on biting him to show his disapproval, that by no means obliterated the truth that Allen would probably have been quite lonely without him.

Admittedly, the reason as to why anyone – be it Cross Marian himself or just whoever had made the golem in the first place – would give a golem a mouth with such sharp teeth was beyond him. The mouth he could understand for practical reasons, but the teeth? Having them added as an additional security measure in case the golem was caught and pried open for information was a fairly valid assumption, but still?

In addition to the teeth there was also the tail to consider, which as he had soon come to learn was not a regular feature, or at least not on the regular Order-issued ones. Then again, particularly in case the golem had truly been the work of Cross, then both the teeth and the tail probably had their defined uses, merely to screw with people or otherwise.

In addition, there was also the shrinking, growing, occasional reshaping and seeming regeneration process to consider. As for the latter, he had already tested that one on a few Order-issued ones that had come very close to catching him on film, but so far, his results had been inconclusive. Then again, it was blatantly obvious to anyone with a brain and the ability to make proper observations that Timcanpy was a figurative marble of both magical and scientific theory. Regardless of who had really made him, they had obviously done a brilliant job.

In order not to get caught any further into semi-scientific ramblings, he shakes his head, dispelling the scattered thoughts so that he can instead focus more on the matter at hand, which includes retaining his stealth whilst marvelling at the massive collection of rare books now well within his reach. Thanks to his years with Cross and all the night-time activities those entailed, he doesn't even require any additional light to browse through the numerous titles of greater and lesser interest that are neatly lined up on the shelves whilst Timcanpy lands on top of his hooded head, making it his temporary perch.

Having a whole lot of titles to browse through, Allen has more than enough time to confirm what he had already suspected, namely that the castle's security is utter rubbish – and fairly nonexistent – if an intruder knows how to get along with flesh-eating plant life, knows how to track and how to stay undetected by the resident akuma and how to move around in the dark and not to call any unnecessary attention to themselves.

Avoiding the count himself isn't really worthy of being called a challenge, as the miserable-looking man who sobs and mumbles to himself as he passes through the castle isn't all that difficult to detect and the latter does not seem to pay a whole lot of attention to his immediate surroundings either.

Had Allen not been particularly keen on continuing to escape detection for a while longer, then he would probably have decided to put it all to the test through standing still in plain sight, staring relentlessly at the count passing by just to see how long it would take until the man noticed him. It would have been a fun experience no doubt, but in the end, it is neither the time nor the place for such experiments.

His decision proves all the more sensible when he – alerted by a sudden influx of sounds from the outside – heads to peek out a nearby window, catching a glimpse of an approaching torch-and-likely-also-pitchfork-bearing mob.

Furthermore, wondering just what had made the frightened folks down in the village snap and to actually manage to gather the courage – or foolhardiness, depending on how one saw it – to launch another assault at the castle, Allen reaches into his backpack and withdraws a small refracting telescope from it – or a monocular, unless he is completely mistaken.

In virtually no time at all, he is able to confirm what his intuition had already been telling him for a while, namely that they have company, and that it consists of the same group of exorcists as the one that he had spotted back in Germany.

As usual, they sure had impeccable timing. For a moment, Allen even comes to wonder whether or not they had somehow managed to follow him there. If so, the he would obviously be in trouble. However, if not, then this situation would merely be fate's way of showing her affections – or rather, that she still hates him and does so with passion, and that it would be most foolish of him to assume otherwise.

In either case, he soon resumes his search for usable books and continues doing this even as Hell breaks loose outside. The battle hardly concerns him after all, and with three at the very least moderately competent fighters on one side against what he assumes to be an untrained but likely also fairly powerful parasitic type – with or without the assistance of the resident Level Two – on the other, he reasons that they should be able to manage perfectly well on their own.

Apparently, he had somewhat overestimated their fighting prowess, as he comes to discover as a massive fire serpent smashes into the opposite wall, weakening it, and is soon followed by a human projectile that blows a hole through it before crashing into the bookshelf Allen himself had only just been browsing through before – adhering to instincts – having opted to move away from the aforementioned spot.

In hindsight, the latter decision proved highly sensible as he would otherwise probably have been hit by what appeared to be the somewhat smouldering Bookman apprentice, either out cold or dead from the looks of it.

Truly, Allen muses as he after briefly taking gauge of the size of the hole in the wall calmly walks over to the unmoving figure of the aforementioned apprentice. Or rather, he takes two or three steps and then pauses, sensing the rapid approach of the resident Level Two, eyes narrowing slightly. _Out to finish him off, huh?_

It doesn't surprise him; not really. It is the sensible course of action after all, and especially so when fighting people who ultimately possess the advantage both in terms of numbers and in terms of power; if you temporarily manage to beat one, it makes more sense to finish them off in order to eliminate the chance of them recovering, however miraculously.

Admittedly – unless possessing a particularly nasty special ability – a Level Two really isn't much of a challenge for him. However, unnecessary interference is…

Even in the man's absence, Allen finds that he can practically hear the sound of Cross Marian scoffing at his bleeding heart. Then again, Cross rarely does anything besides disapprove of Allen's actions and reactions, so it isn't all that big of a deal to begin with. Unnecessary attachments and actions aside – after everything he's been through – he's still…

It had been very stupid of him to attempt to raise the dead; Allen knows that and he knows it very well, but…

_"You really don't have a shred of self-preservation, do you?"_

He scoffs at the unwelcome reminder, mentally preparing himself for what is to come.

_If I had more than a mere shred of self-preservation…_

_Then I wouldn't have taken the risk of associating with you in the first place, you bastard._

**- o0o -**


	4. Onto That Lovely Face

_Chapter four, featuring quite a few laughs, mostly at other people's expense._

_Do I regret writing it?_

…

_Who knows?_

- o0o -

**Onto That Lovely Face**

- o0o -

Occasionally, Allen finds himself wondering whether or not the world – or is it Fate? – is screwing with him.

One such occasion is when he – upon having left the count's castle with his latest catch – finds himself on the same train as not only the exorcist party but also as their latest recruit, who is none other than the aforementioned count who by now has been made aware of the fact that he is neither a vampire nor welcome to stay in his abode – not even to grieve the passing of his akuma lover, the latter of whom the man had been forced to kill in order to avoid the fate of being killed in return.

Truthfully, it shouldn't even have mattered all that much to him; it wouldn't, if not for the fact that Allen had – once the battle had been over with and the aforementioned count had asked the others to give him some time and to go ahead without him – incidentally ended up talking the other out of an impromptu suicide attempt.

Ultimately – whether it was due to their brief exchange of words or not – the count had seemingly chosen to live, and not to remain in the building upon having set fire to it, which was sensible; Allen had to admit as much.

The decision to join a bunch of strangers for a game of poker without knowing how to play was – on the other hand – not very wise, and particularly not so when the other players – well, one player in particular – were cheating.

Truth to be told, Allen wants little more than to turn a blind eye to it all. However, watching the scene out of the corner of his eye as it plays out before him, Allen begins to feel his fingertips start to itch; he is, after all, not a recovering poker addict for nothing. Then again, classifying him as such isn't really all that correct, seeing that he is more addicted to the thrill that comes out of cheating at card games in general – and poker in particular – than addicted to the game itself. However, because the opportunity of thrill is generally included in the aforementioned, Allen really sees no reason to worry much about details.

Whether he likes it or not, he is ultimately a bit of a thrill seeker. Still, a bit of a thrill seeker or not, he generally prefers playing it safe if such a thing is possible; well, not safe-safe, because that would just be plain dull, but rather the pushing-the-limits kind of safe. Besides, whenever he himself is involved in just about anything, things have a certain tendency of escalating in his immediate presence, regardless of whether he himself interferes or not.

Regardless, he finds that he can only withstand the allure of the game for a limited amount of time, and before he knows it, he has risen from his seat and made his way over, asking to be included in all the fun.

- o0o -

At the next station, the gang intent on scamming the Count makes their exit, deprived of all but their underwear. Allen though – feeling charitable, seeing to the fact that he has absolutely no bloody use for three sets of dirty, worn-out clothes – chooses to return their belongings, and the fourth companion – a fairly young, weak-looking child who had not participated in the game – pulls out something golden. The latter then proceeds to hold it out for Allen to take – presumably as some sort of compensation – but is held back by the perm-haired one – Tyki, the seeming leader of the group – who admonishes the kid and pulls out a pack of cards instead, offering it up in exchange.

Allen – reasoning that he will probably have way more use for a pack of cards than for a piece of gold in the longer term – reaches out to take it, just as the train begins moving again.

As the group on the station prepares to leave, the kid turns briefly, looks shyly in his direction and waves. Tyki – looking rather amused – mimics the latter motion, but not the former.

Allen – still retaining the slightest semblance of the politeness that Mana had shown proof of but never really managed to instil – returns the wave once and then loses sight of them as the train starts moving. The latter forces him to retreat from the carriage window with his prize still in hand and his eyes slightly wide as he slumps back into his seat.

He takes a deep breath, followed by another, followed by yet another, and then he is finally calm and collected enough to process things. He does so in silence, and largely in solitude, as the girl from the exorcist party – Lenalee Lee, was it? – had turned up earlier to pick up the Count, who had apparently received the message when Allen had previously provided a summary of what he was going to do to him in case the latter failed to pretend that this little encounter of theirs – be it the one at the castle or the one just now – had never occurred in the first place.

Then again, if the Count – Crowley or whatever his name was – eventually did spill his guts – figuratively speaking, obviously – then that would obviously serve as a minor inconvenience. Admittedly, seeing that the latter was actually aware of his association with Cross Marian and all, the act of the other figuratively spilling their guts to whoever could technically come to jeopardise Allen's continued livelihood, and possibly even his vaguely formulated mission as well.

Then again, as far as the latter was concerned, Allen could technically speaking make it work in his personal or at least in his and Cross' mutual interest, given that it would no doubt bring more attention to him as a person and thus force the enemy – whoever that really was – to split their attention and resources between two targets instead of majorly focusing merely on one.

In other words, even if Count Crowley did end up spilling his figurative guts to someone, it wasn't technically speaking a catastrophe. Evidently, it would no doubt have the potential to escalate into a full-blown cataclysm if not handled properly.

Oh well, Allen supposes that he will cross that bridge – and presumably also burn it – whenever it becomes necessary. And, if against all expectation the latter – Crowley, that is – would have the sense to keep quiet about his presence and involvement in recent events, then that would most certainly be fine as well, seeing that he – Allen, that is – has other things to attend, some of which are more pressing than others.

That boy – Eez, he thinks that was the kid's name – seemed to be carrying some serious jewellery. Never mind that the other was carrying gold; the metal itself was certainly valuable enough, but it was the shape that had piqued Allen's interest.

Admittedly, he had only caught a momentary glimpse of it, so it was entirely possible that he had been mistaken. Then again, even with the possibility of his eyes fooling him, there was still the matter of the man who was allegedly the leader of the group, this Tyki person.

Although their exchange had been brief, Allen had reacted to something in the other's presence – a lingering sense of danger perhaps, or perhaps something else. Then again, he had always been fairly sensitive to detecting strange vibes from people in his surroundings.

Admittedly, his senses weren't always reliable, but they did give him a general idea as to the people that he should avoid. Then again, it wasn't like that meant that he would automatically trust those who didn't automatically trip his senses; it was generally the ones that seemed utterly harmless that one ought to watch out for.

The first rule was to trust no one. However, seeing that he is – according to Cross, at any rate – still a gullible idiot somewhere on the inside, he does occasionally end up placing some amount of trust in others, all whilst preparing himself for the eventuality of them betraying the aforementioned trust.

The second rule was…

His eyes flicker briefly to survey his surroundings before he looks out the window once more, contemplating it.

Regardless of everything, this Tyki person had tripped his senses.

Admittedly, it could have been just a fluke, but Allen really doesn't think so.

After all, he could have sworn that the other's eyes – largely obscured by a pair of truly ugly glasses – had been amber-coloured, and if Allen's mind hadn't been playing tricks on him, then it was in hindsight all too obvious as to just whose deck of cards he was now idly shuffling whilst attempting to gather his thoughts.

Admittedly, the thought of a member of the Noah family travelling about all incognito with a bunch of humans did seem a tad peculiar to him. Then again, seeing to the fact that Allen knew very little of the family in general, it really wasn't up to him to decide on whether or not this was anything out of the ordinary; for all that he knew, it was entirely possible that all members of the Noah family travelled the world with their own personal band of friends and/or possible servants.

It is entirely possible, yes, but he somehow has a hard time picturing it. Besides, if he has to get caught up onto something, then it is more sensible to ponder the matter about the young boy's unusual piece of jewellery.

After all, a button from an exorcist general's coat isn't a very common accessory or for that matter even all that easy to come across. After all, Allen imagines that most generals in general wouldn't be all too keen on parting with their valuable coat ornament. After all, even though Allen himself isn't entirely sure as to why the aforementioned buttons are made out of precious metal – gold for generals, silver for legionnaires and presumably nothing valuable for regular cannon fodder – but Allen has a fair hypothesis about that one.

Summarily speaking, the aforementioned hypothesis cited the main reasons for the aforementioned choice of metals as something to do with 1) status, 2) unknown practical reasons, and 3) as emergency currency in case the owner of the aforementioned coat could not be financially supported by the Order at the time.

Then again, Allen somehow doubts that the latter potential use had actually been intended, as it does seem rather like something Cross probably would have done, had it not been for the fact that the aforementioned buttons all had his name engraved into them, making the act of spreading them carelessly about a stupid idea indeed.

Then again, with Cross being Cross, it isn't as though the latter could actually be bothered to destroy his own clothing when he could either charm or cheat or borrow his way out of just about anything, meaning that the act of salvaging precious metal buttons from his coat was just so much beneath him that it just wouldn't exist as a viable alternative in the first place. Then again…

Okay, so he was getting off track again.

He continues shuffling the deck of cards and then finally comes to a pause, pulls a card from the top of it and looks at it, finding a black joker grinning right back at him.

So… as things appeared, the exorcist party that had appeared at the Count's castle hadn't been there because they were looking for him – but had rather turned up for Cross. Now, adding that piece of information to his latest observations, he reached a tentative presumption that 1) something major had recently taken place, and 2) said major thing had in some way concerned the exorcist generals, and had probably in some way included murder and/or grievous bodily or mental injury, and presumably to a general as well.

To support this latest hypothesis of his, there was – among others – the fact that he had just observed a general's button that was obviously no longer attached to a general's coat and instead acted out the part of jewellery for a boy in the company of a man who was possibly a member of the Noah family, the latter of whom was presumably out on a mission to assassinate valuable Order operatives or something to the like.

Okay, so the latter was merely an assumption on his part, but all in all, it was probably not all that far from the truth. Something had apparently got the Order spooked, and presumably managed to spook them to such an extent that they would send parties of regular exorcists to track down and presumably escort the remaining generals back to some location which had been deemed safe and whatnot.

Now, the latter idea was supported by the fact that the exorcist party that had nearly happened upon him had been assigned to track down Cross, and they really did have their work cut out for them.

Admittedly, Cross had obviously been leaving some sort of trail to follow, but since Cross was actually headed eastward to accomplish his oh-so-top-secret mission to sabotage the Earl's akuma plant, Allen wondered whether or not he ought to interfere; to draw some attention to himself and then lead them off in the other direction on a merry goose chase around Europe or Africa or even hitch a ride with a boat across the Atlantic.

Then again, since Cross actually seemed to be leaving some sort of trail for others to follow, it was just as likely that the man was luring the lot right into danger in order to provide a decent distraction and whatnot; the man himself obviously largely indifferent to the fact that it was highly likely to get them all killed.

Then again, if the aforementioned party was actually stupid enough to walk right into the trap, then Allen wondered whether or not he ought to just let them do that, seeing that they were – from his general assessment, at any rate – not only foolish but also stubborn as mules with a common sense that was on par with that of pebbles, and were as such just as likely to dive headfirst into danger even if he decided to properly warn them about the kind of mess that they would no doubt be getting themselves into.

As far as intelligence went, there probably wasn't much of an issue with them – Allen really wasn't calling the lot stupid, seeing that they weren't technically speaking stupid but rather emotionally compromised, most prominently in the case of Lenalee Lee.

As for Count Crowley, the latter would probably be more hampered by his innate naiveté and lack of experience with the real world than by any potential emotional trauma. Then again, it was probably a bit too early to tell in this particular case, seeing that the latter was still recovering from his first instance of major emotional trauma.

As for Bookman and the Bookman apprentice, they were no doubt sharp and no doubt possessed a keen eye for details. However, if anything, then they risked either being too passive in an effort to remain neutral or risked getting involved to the point when they too risked becoming emotionally compromised.

Then again, what did he know? For all that he knew, he had managed to get himself emotionally compromised from the very moment that he had first stepped in to interfere, courtesy of his bleeding heart.

Allen returns the joker card to the deck and continues to shuffle it, contemplating his options.

All in all, it seems perfectly clear to him that the presumed Cross-retrieval party is heading eastward. All in all, it seems perfectly clear to him, and as such, it is obvious that he has to think about what to do about the matter, which ultimately adds up to whether or not he ought to 1) ignore them, 2) assist them, or 3) impede them.

Truth to be told, the latter alternative sounds the most appealing. Then again…

He puts the pack of cards aside and – after confirming that there is no one watching – pulls a somewhat ruffled-looking Timcanpy from his pocket.

The latter bares its teeth at him – clearly displeased with having been confined for so long – but Allen smiles disarmingly in response, seeing that he is about to suggest something that will probably end up alleviating the other's spirits a bit. "Hey, Tim…"

"Let's do something fun."

- o0o -

In hindsight, maybe it hadn't been so clever. Then again, considering the fact that he got an honest laugh out of it, he still thinks that it was mostly worth it, troubles aside.

Regardless of whether the slight prank that he had played on the exorcist party sent after Cross had been a wise move or not, it had certainly stirred things up a bit.

However, as far as the stirring up part went, it had also left the victims of his prank undeniable fairly proof of his existence, and judging from most of their reactions, Crowley still had yet to blow Allen's cover, which admittedly was surprising but certainly worked a great deal in his favour.

And, judging from the dumbstruck looks on the faces of some as they spotted Timcanpy fluttering around him – clearly recognising the former as belonging to the very person that they were looking for – he had just figuratively speaking dropped a great bombshell into the pond, rippling the surface strongly but briefly whilst he waited from a moderately safe distance – well, by his standards at any rate – to see whether or not it would actually blow up or not.

Obviously though, Allen certainly hadn't been foolish enough to pull such a manoeuvre unmasked, or even uncloaked for that matter.

With his mask and hood firmly in place and his cloak billowing around him like no one's business, Allen was fairly certain that he had made quite an appearance.

In addition to this, he had also managed with the feat of outrunning and effectively hoodwinking his pursuers with the use of his Innocence coupled with a few well-timed spells, and had ultimately made his escape in the seeming confusion that followed.

All in all, with caution temporarily thrown to the wind, he had definitely had a blast.

Truth to be told, he had also enjoyed relaying the gist of the events to Anita – one of Cross' supporters/admirers/occasional lovers – once he had made it to Shanghai, even though the latter – who in addition to being the aforementioned was also the owner of a large brothel that had been secretly supporting the Order (though mostly Cross, and the Order by association) – had been somewhat appalled by this sudden display of brashness of his, and her aid Mahoja – a tall, bald woman of impressive physique – had been equally disapproving, but been way more vocal about it.

Anyway, obvious disapproval aside, there had been mutual agreement in regards to that he would be forced to procure a new outfit, both because his own clothes had by that point in time certainly already seen the best of their days and because they had been generally ill-suited as far as fitting in and blending into the crowd was concerned.

After all, his foreign appearance and odd hair colour already stuck out like a sore thumb. Then again, as with most things, there were ways to counter or at least mitigate such things, and wearing the appropriate attire was one such a way, and wearing a hat or something to the like was another.

However, with Anita being the overly devoted, fierce and stubborn woman that she was whenever she had decided upon something, Allen had been quick to realise that just about any clothes just wouldn't do.

Thus, Allen somewhat reluctantly agreed to having his measurements taken so that someone – presumably Mahoja or some other aid – could head out and place the order for him, as Anita had _insisted_ that he'd stay at the brothel and rest and not head out and to keep a low profile and to not get himself into any more trouble than he was already in, seeing that the exorcist party had no doubt arrived in the city during the time that they had spent chatting over a cup of tea.

All in all, Allen did agree with this particular assessment. All in all, yes, but by no means entirely.

Besides, once Anita had left to attend other matters and effectively left him all on his own in the room with its folding screens and multiple lanterns and whatnot. All in all, he supposed that it was rather fancy with all the décor and stuff, but foreign as it was, it made him just a tad ill at ease for some reason.

Then again, it was just as possible that the aforementioned feeling had less to do with the interior decorations and more to do with his keen sense of something-is-about-to-go-horribly-wrong acting up again, and – heeding the unspoken warning – he had looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of Timcanpy – who had up until that point been fluttering restlessly close to a slightly opened window – being snatched up in the mouth of a passing stray and disappearing from his line of sight shortly thereafter.

Obviously – having little time to waste – Allen jumped up to his feet and moved to the window, confirming the cat's supposed getaway route before moving to climb out the window by himself. Then, suddenly reminded that he had 1) practically been forbidden from setting his foot outside the establishment, and 2) definitely wasn't wearing the proper attire for doing so whilst keeping a low profile, he reluctantly paused and looked back into the room, looking for something that would aid him in his plight.

Moments later, his eyes landed upon a piece of clothing that he would later learn was a _ruqun_, a type of Han Chinese clothing that was primarily worn by women.

As far as the female part was concerned, Allen had already been able to confirm as much already from his initial observation. The reason for the clothes being there in the first place puzzled him somewhat, but knowing that there was little time to concern oneself about details, Allen – having already shed his coat beforehand seeing to the fact that it was just plain rude to converse with people indoors over a cup of tea whilst in outerwear – proceeds to shed some part of his male dignity, swiftly pulling the things on and on top of his clothes, fiddling for nearly half a minute with tightening and securing them with the attached sashes before dashing off without a word, reasoning that he could always explain later.

Even with the addition of some not very practical pieces of clothing, he had actually managed to accomplish his objective fairly quickly, tracking down the cat and snatching it up. After a brief scuffle, he had pulled the golem from its mouth before letting it escape so that he could berate his wayward golem in peace, only to have the other attempt to bite him for his efforts.

Displeased, Allen had retained the grip on the creature's wings with one hand and had proceeded to loosen his hair tie with the other before pulling it out and using it to tie up the other's wings, muttering curses and apologies under his breath.

Finally done with this task, he had then proceeded to drop the aforementioned golem inside his clothing, where the latter fortunately stilled.

With a sigh, Allen straightened and tucked an invasive lock of white hair behind his ear, seeing that he no longer had the hair tie at his disposal to hold it in place. Once he got back – hopefully without further incidents – he would ask if Anita could cut it for him.

However, as he was about to turn a corner into a mostly empty side street, the approaching sound of running footsteps had him turning his head slightly, just in time for him to get bloody bowled over from behind.

- o0o -

"Sorry, sorry, didn't see you there."

On his hands and knees on the street now, Allen finds himself putting a lot of effort in not freezing up as a glance through the curtain of his now even more dishevelled locks confirms what his ears had already told him, namely that he had just been bowled over by the freaking Bookman apprentice and that the aforementioned redhead was currently looming over him.

"Are you alright, Miss-…?"

Allen is back on his feet – albeit a bit unsteadily – before the other has even finished their statement, and he keeps his averted and down low and his head the same way, allowing his hair to conceal what could be concealed at any rate. However, whilst the latter certainly does a decent job of it, it also obscures his vision, resulting in that he only has about a second's notice to slap away the hand that had been reaching for his face.

"Uh…" The Bookman apprentice shifts somewhat awkwardly. "You know, it's kinda awkward when you don't respond. I feel like I'm talking to myself over here and all..."

Allen turns slightly, surveying their surroundings to make sure that the rest of the exorcist party isn't just waiting around the corner, watching them.

"Come on," Lavi insists, stepping closer and to the side as he continues to keep his head down and face hidden to the best that circumstances would allow. "Are you really so shy that you won't even talk to me? Or is it that you can't speak?"

Allen chances a brief glance in the other's direction; face still largely obscured as he lifts his hand to rest it against the side of his throat. "You're persistent," he says quietly, responding in English as he has been addressed in the aforementioned language, noting with some amount of relief that he sounds way more like a young woman than like a temporarily cross-dressing teenager, voice unbroken.

Nevertheless, the redhead grins triumphantly; Allen feels suddenly tempted to slap him. "So you're not mute after all."

_Not mute_. He turns on his heel, already heading off._ Merely inconvenienced_.

"Hey!"

He picks up his speed, only to have the other tag right along and adjusting their pace to keep up.

"Hey, wait up! Hey!"

_How about… NO._

"Sorry about that, about before, I mean." The redhead is now trailing just behind him. "Uh… you work here in town?"

_Work?_ Again, Allen places two fingertips against his own throat."In a manner of speaking."

"In a manner of speaking?"

He doesn't stop walking, having caught sight of Anita's establishment in the distance. "Yes, in a manner of speaking."

"Hey, aren't you a bit too young to-…"

This time around, he actually does come to a stop, levelling the one tailing him with a pointed glare before once again turning his head away, shifting his posture.

"Anyways…" A paper is dangled in front of him. "Have you seen this man?"

Allen finds himself face to face with a surprisingly accurate sketch of his wayward master. "Why are you looking for him?" he asks.

_Why indeed?_

"Uh… because he's my father?"

Allen momentarily lifts his gaze, levelling it upon the redhead before once again directing his seeming attention towards the sketched portrait. "I can clearly see the family resemblance," he notes quietly, voice retaining its mildly feminine quality, though he can tell that his spell is about to lose its efficiency.

"Oh really?" The redheaded Bookman apprentice looks momentarily puzzled, but Allen supposes that it might just be a ruse; a pretence. "So, have you seen him or not?"

_Well…_

Allen steps past him, intent on moving on, only to have a hand grasp his wrist – and his left one at that – keeping him from going any further.

"Wait." However reluctantly, Allen obliges.

"You know…" There is a playful lilt to the other's voice. "You remind me an awful lot of someone…"

Hah. "You also remind me of someone," Allen responds dryly, having pressed his fingertips back against his throat to prolong the magic affecting the performance of his vocal cords.

Now that brings his recent tail to a pause. "Oh?"

Allen decides to play it for all that its worth. "Your hair and fixation on women," he begins, tearing himself loose from the other's temporarily slackened grip. "Now you only need a few more years to develop a drinking and smoking habit and to twist that personality of yours a bit further and you're set."

"No way…" – _Yes way._ – "You know him then? Cross Marian."

He actually finds it difficult not to snicker, and when he actually does, they sound an awful lot like giggles to his own ears, but he lets it pass him by, for now; he can grieve his dignity afterwards. "It'd be pretty damn hard not to."

"How so?" – He so isn't answering that. – "Did he hit on you or something?"

From one moment to the next, Allen goes from stifling his giggles to deadpan; deadpan and rather displeased. "I'm not obligated to answer that," he offers the other simply, turning sharply and then proceeds to take the other down with a knee to the groin before taking off in the time that the other is momentarily incapacitated.

- o0o -

Once he arrives back at the brothel, an irate Mahoja snatches him up and drags him inside, muttering Chinese curses under her breath. Shortly thereafter, he is shoved back into what he at least assumes is Anita's private quarters, and is greeted by the woman herself, who glances in his direction momentarily before averting her eyes, stifling a chuckle.

In a way, Allen almost feels tempted to snap at her. However, knowing that he – with all due likelihood – deserves getting laughed at, Allen merely snorts as he sets to work on the sashes holding his improvised incognito outfit together, slipping out of the pieces one by one and gathering them up into his arms before approaching Anita where she sits, her lips curved upwards into a slight smile which is halfway obscured by the rim of her teacup.

Allen doesn't take offence, and instead takes a seat on the pillow that had no doubt been set onto the floor with him in mind. "For the record," he begins, liberating the golem from its previous confinement and retrieving his hair tie whilst he is at it, using it to gather his hair into a low ponytail to get it out of his face. His voice has at this point – thankfully – returned to normal. "Timcanpy just had to get himself eaten by a stray cat."

Timcanpy – apparently having taken some amount of offence – flutters off in direction of Anita and makes the woman's headpiece his new perch, to the woman's continued amusement. "A stray?" she notes, elegantly reaching up to caress the aforementioned golem's wing. "It must've been rough on you, Tim."

Allen could have sworn that he saw Timcanpy do the golem equivalent of preening, no doubt enjoying all the attention. Either way, Allen averts his eyes from it. "Must've been rough on me," he mutters instead and humbly accepts the tea that Anita pours him before once again directing his attention to the golem. "Honestly, for being highly capable and virtually indestructible in general, your persistent habit of getting eaten by felines is starting to annoy me. Honestly, Tim… I went out and humiliated myself in order to rescue you without blowing my cover, and this is the thanks that I get?" He fixes the golem with a pointed look. "Next time, you're on your own."

Judging from the way in which Timcanpy twitches, his message had reached home.

"If it's any consolation," Anita begins, addressing Allen this time around. "With some makeup and a minor attitude adjustment, I would consider hiring you."

"You're joking," Allen states, deadpan.

She stifles another laugh with her hand. "Am I?"

Allen sends her a pointed look. Then, he averts his eyes and reaches over for his coat, which lies where he had discarded it earlier.

Shortly thereafter, he liberates a foldable pocket knife from one of its pockets. "Regardless," he states calmly, sparing a brief moment to marvel at the sharpness of its cutting edge before positioning it next to his ponytail. "The hair has got to go."

Anita shoots him a look of mild disapproval, clearly questioning the necessity of it.

"It requires too much maintenance," Allen offers her simply, slicing his ponytail off at shoulder length before she can make any greater deal of fuss over it. "And it risks getting in the way in a fight, and it can make people mistake me for a girl, and it keeps getting tangled all over the place."

She places her teacup down once more as he rises to his feet and pulls his coat along, ready to leave.

"The exorcists are in town," Allen offers her as an explanation. "And I just kneed a certain Bookman apprentice in the groin for indicating that Cross had propositioned me."

Anita lifts an elegantly sculptured eyebrow in response. "In other words, you think that we're about to receive company?"

"Most definitely."

"Well then." She rises to her feet as elegantly as ever, and Timcanpy reluctantly abandons his most recent perch for a more familiar one, nestling in Allen's hair. "I better inform Mahoja then."

Hoh.

"What do you mean to tell them then?" Allen asks somewhat wryly, having finished buttoning his coat. "That Cross left for Japan three days ago and is currently MIA after his ship was sunk?"

"Perhaps." She smiles, quietly reassured Allen's earlier insistence that Cross Marian is the type of man who wouldn't drown or otherwise perish – be it at sea or just about anywhere else as well – even if someone had their mind set onto making it happen. After all, the Earl had tried and failed – and so had many others – and multiple times at that. "Am I to offer up my assistance?"

Allen snorts in response, adjusting his collar. "If you must."

"However…"

"Don't overdo it."

She turns where she stands in the doorway, already on her way out. For a brief moment, she looks almost surprised. Then, she smiles. "So, what about you then?" she asks. "Do we know each other, or… am I to plead my ignorance?"

Allen scoffs, pulling up his hood. "Do as you like, as long as you keep my name out of this."

Admittedly, the first rule was to trust no one. Then again, as with all rules, there were the seeming exceptions and Anita was one of them. After all, though Cross didn't adhere to the principle of keeping one's friends close and one's enemies even closer and instead seemed to prefer keeping them both at a distance and regarding them with varying degrees of contempt, women – particularly lone, beautiful women of high or at least moderate intellect – seemed largely exempt from the rest of humanity. Then again, perhaps Cross just had a thing for women who fulfilled the aforementioned criteria and who also proved susceptible to his charms. Then again, with Cross being Cross, Allen found that he somehow wouldn't put it past the other to sleep with the enemy if something valuable could be gained from it. Then again…

"Your new clothes will be ready in three days," she informs him, stepping out of the room. "If you wish for any additional provisions – or a boat for that matter – then you need only ask, and I'll have them prepared within the week."

"Generous," Allen snorts as he trails behind her on his way towards the backdoor. "Do you treat all your non-paying customers with such generosity?"

She actually pauses at that, sending him another look before directing her eyes back forward, lips curling into a smile. "Ah, worry not," she assures him. "I'll make sure to put it up onto your tab."

Allen runs a hand through his now somewhat shorter hair, sighing exasperatedly. "Figures."

- o0o -


End file.
